


Make Me Call Again

by summerstorm



Category: Community
Genre: Community: kissbingo, F/F, First Time, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Britta comes to the conclusion that hating Slater isn't worth the hassle of avoiding her. Slater comes to a similar conclusion about avoiding Britta. They attempt to call a truce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me Call Again

**Author's Note:**

> For the "under the mistletoe" square on my kissbingo card. This started as secret dating fic (if you read it you'll realize that means it started at the end), but then it wanted to be getting-together fic, so now it is both things. Actually I'm not sure how I'd describe it, but it was fun to write. Thanks to Annemari for looking it over.

"Britta," Professor Slater says the first time they cross paths after the Tranny Dance debacle. Literally cross paths. Britta's heading to her Physiotherapy class, Professor Slater's just coming out of her office, and there's enough people walking around them that they're forced to meet each other's eyes.

"Professor Slater," Britta mumbles into her collar, and walks on.

The second time, they don't even greet each other.

The third time, Britta tries to dodge her by going around the crowd and walks straight into Megan from her Portrayal of Women in the Media class. Megan seethes at her for a minute, says, "Watch where you're going," elbows her in the ribs, and follows on her merry way. Britta raises her eyebrows and stupidly looks back, accidentally making eye contact with Professor Slater after all.

The fourth day Britta knows she's likely to run into Slater, she takes the long way around the building, only to be thwarted by locked doors. Still, she's late to class, and Slater probably isn't, so the strategy is successful, if not in the way Britta had planned.

Then, she has a Friday and all of the weekend to relax.

On Monday, she runs into Slater in the _parking lot_ , and this time "run into" actually means "nearly gets run over by Slater's car."

"You've got to be kidding me," Britta says.

Slater lowers the window in her car and yells, "Are you okay?"

Britta glares, waves a hand dismissively, glares some more, and speeds up her pace until she gets to the cafeteria, which thankfully is not a spot Slater visits with any sort of frequency.

Later, when she heads out of Physiotherapy, Slater's leaning against her office door, waiting.

"You're doing this on _purpose_ ," Britta says as an accusation.

"I am today, yes," Slater says. "I don't know what you know about me, but I don't make a habit of nearly hitting people with my car and then think, screw it, I was just trying to park."

"What else were you—" Britta gasps. "Were you _going_ for me?"

"No," Slater says, high and offended. "I was just trying to park, but that _doesn't_ mean I'm not sorry I almost hit you."

"Oh," says Britta. Her shoulders loosen up a little. "Okay. I guess it wasn't entirely your fault. It doesn't require a lot of attention to see a car is moving towards you and get out of the way."

"I was behind the wheel; I am willing to take full blame for what happened."

"That's ridiculous, it's not like you came out of nowhere or like, were going too fast or some—"

"Are we going to argue about this?" Slater interrupts.

"Why wouldn't—" Britta begins, then shuts her mouth forcibly and remains quiet for a second before taking a deep breath and saying, "No. No, we are not. Apology accepted."

"Good," says Slater, and they stand there for a few seconds, determinedly not looking at each other. Then, Slater looks up and says, "Do you want to come out to lunch sometime? My treat."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Britta points out, though it's probably not necessary.

Slater laughs. "I know it sounds like a recipe for disaster, but we can agree everything that happened last year wasn't exactly a shining moment for either one of us. Besides, frankly, avoiding someone in a school this small is exhausting."

"It is pretty taxing."

"We can find out if it's a lost cause for us to be civil to each other," says Slater. "And if it goes badly—"

"—we can act like we're strangers from now on," Britta agrees, nodding.

"Here," Slater says, pulling out a small reporter notebook from her purse and scribbling something down before tearing out the page and giving it to Britta. "I go there pretty much every day around noon. You can show up anytime." Slater narrows her eyes, and hisses out, "Except Wednesdays, don't show up on a Wednesday."

"You realize that makes me want to show up on a Wednesday, right?"

Slater smiles, zips up her purse and says, "I do," before walking off with a shrug.

*

Britta's 11:30 class is canceled, so she shows up on Tuesday. She spots Slater sitting at a table near the back, one hand loosely cradling a cup of coffee and the other holding up a pen, cap brushing her lips, as she looks at the notebook in front of her.

When Britta stands before her table, Slater's glance falls on her pants, eyes trailing up idly until she reaches Britta's face and stops dead.

"You're not wearing a leather jacket," Slater points out, brow furrowing.

Britta twines her hands over her stomach and stretches out her arms. "Uh," she says, pursing her lips in consideration, "hello to you, too?"

"Sit down," Slater says. Britta takes a brief look at her notebook, all numbers and charts, stray pencil traces overpowered by columns in colored ink, before Slater closes it, and she catches a glimpse of several bright markers in her purse before Slater throws the notebook into it and zips it closed.

"I should get—" Britta says, pointing back at the bar with her thumb, and Slater sits back in her chair.

"I'll wait."

It's a sunny day, Britta has another two classes ahead of her, and there's no saying Slater won't try to pull her eyes out in about two minutes, so she goes for cold and light and fast to eat, which means she grabs and pays for a prepackaged cheese sandwich and a bottled water and is back at Slater's table in no time.

"Okay, let's get down to it: what do you want?" Britta asks as she slides into a chair and unwraps the sandwich.

"Direct," Slater says, and Britta's about to explain the many benefits of being direct when Slater nods her approval and adds, "I like it. I want peace. Civility. Maybe even a politely optimistic acquaintance if you can swing it."

"That's it?"

"That's it," Slater says. "I imagine in order to achieve that, we should put the past behind us, so—" She holds out a hand. "I both apologize and forgive you for the end of last year."

Britta swallows her mouthful of sandwich and wipes her hand on a napkin before shaking Slater's. Slater looks down with a small grimace, but then she shakes her head and picks up her coffee.

"So," Slater says, shrugging like that'll make her come up with something they can talk about, "how's—Jeff?"

Britta eyes her warily. "Are we really going to talk about Jeff?"

"Are we really going to pretend he's not the only thing we have in common?"

"We're not going to pretend anything," says Britta, nodding decisively. "I am going to tell you that he is fine, as he always is, and we are going to talk about what you were doing on your notebook when I got here. I'm honestly curious, it's a neutral topic, and it allows you to speak more than me, which is convenient seeing as I'm trying to eat."

Slater looks at her curiously for a moment; then, she nods, smiling, and pulls out her notebook.

By the end of the day, Britta's signed up for her class. It turns out Slater was charting out the decrease in various critically endangered species over the last decade; the last page of her notebook focuses on the Amur leopard, and Britta realizes how helpful it would be for activism purposes to know how to do these things.

She just can't resist.

*

"Your ex-girlfriend may not be a complete idiot," Britta allows when she joins the study group in the library a week after she starts taking Slater's Intro to Statistics.

She directs the remark at Jeff, who only glares at her. It's Abed who speaks up. "Which one?"

"How many do we know?" Annie squeaks, and needs a second to compose herself before continuing.

"That depends. How many do _you_ know, or how many do _I_ know?"

Annie ignores him. "I assume you're talking about Professor Slater. I am glad you have put your differences aside," Annie says, clearly not believing a word she's saying.

"I'm taking her class," Britta announces, turning to face Jeff again, "and it's a great class, and she's a decent teacher."

"That's it? I don't know why you thought I would care. Enjoy," he offers magnanimously. "And maybe try not to fall in love with the same student. Again."

"I wasn't asking for advice," Britta complains.

"It kind of sounded like you were," Annie says.

"I vote epiphany," says Abed. Everyone turns to him. "Britta, for reasons currently unbeknownst to us, decided to take a Statistics class. She found out the enemy concept she was fighting against over a boy belongs in her head, and not in a person. Not in Professor Slater. Add some character development and defensive sarcasm, and you have this moment." Abed lifts a finger, then puts it down. "Or, not this moment. The moment Britta walked in and said—"

"Yeah, yeah, we got it," says Jeff.

"I don't like you looking at us all as imaginary characters," says Shirley.

"Yeah, where's our free will?" Annie says, looking at Shirley pointedly.

"I'm sitting this one out," says Abed, and opens his book.

Britta rolls her eyes.

*

Britta doesn't mean to keep meeting Slater for lunch, but then there's a Wednesday, and she's curious, even though it turns out Slater neither does nor meets anything or anyone special. At least not as far as Britta's concerned.

"Are you embarrassed about eating?" Britta asks, gasping.

"No," Slater says, one hand over her mouth until she swallows. "No, I'm not embarrassed. I just make for terrible company." She points at her mouth. "Can't talk much."

"Well, if you can pig out, I'm all for pigging out too," says Britta, "we can pig out in companionable silence," orders the biggest veggie burger on the menu, and starts picking at Slater's fries while she waits.

It turns out they do have one thing in common, despite Slater's absolute lack of qualms about eating meat: their taste in food or complete lack thereof. Not that Britta would admit she agrees with the world on the subject of what is and isn't bad taste, and whether hers is terrible or just not universally that classy.

Before the end of the week, somehow, Britta has no idea how, but she's not going to ask, Slater acquires her phone number, and texts her a location and time for Saturday, where they would normally not see a glimpse of each other. Upon Googling the location, Britta finds out it's a little Greek restaurant with what appears to be medium to low hygiene standards and a large selection of vegetarian dishes.

She's happy to go. She's not so happy when she finds herself looking in the mirror by the door fifteen minutes before she's supposed to head out. She's fixing her hair. The last thing either that restaurant or Slater call for is impressing, so she stops.

The place looks better in person. It looks a lot cleaner, at least, and a lot of the tables and chairs seem new.

"You came," Slater says when she arrives, while Britta pretends to be leaving her bag on a spare chair like she just got here. "I'm impressed."

"It looked so dingy and suspect on the web I had to check it out for myself," Britta says.

Slater sits down in a fluid motion. "They should really update their website. Those pictures are from five years ago."

"They are?"

"There's a different owner now," says Slater. "I helped him buy the place. Long story."

"No, I'm curious," Britta prompts, and, over dinner, Slater tells her about that, and a summer she spent in Greece with the family of a college boyfriend, and how she hated the food so much she could only grow to hate it less. In turn, Britta talks about possible majors and the college cafeteria's practically nonexistent choices for people who don't want to eat suspicious-looking, meat-flavored stuff. She also goes on a rant about self-declared groupies when Slater tells her about a Radiohead show she went to in Athens that summer.

Slater both admits to being one of the people Britta used to hate and now hating them herself. "Moment of weakness," she defends herself, holding a piece of cheese to her bottom lip. Britta wants to kiss her.

She stops her glass halfway to her mouth and sets it back on the table. Okay.

"Too much cheap wine?" Slater asks.

"Probably," says Britta. _Definitely not_ , which makes it weirder. Not that she's never—she's never claimed to be completely straight, but it's _Slater_. _Professor_ Slater.

"I always wonder if it's some kind of moral fallibility to be completely comfortable watching a student drink," Slater says. "Not that it would matter, but it's there."

And she's Britta's professor now, fuck. "Actually I should get going, I—"

"It's definitely not against school policy," Slater reassures Britta, like that's what Britta's worrying about.

Except maybe it is, because suddenly Britta's hand picks up her glass, and Britta herself doesn't mind.

She takes the bus home, after. Slater lives a few blocks away, so she waits with her at the stop. They stand beside each other; the conversation dies down as the sun sets, and then their elbows bump together and Britta jumps back. "You don't have to wait with me," Britta says.

Slater's taken a step back, too, Britta realizes, and she nods at Britta's words. "You're right. You can probably—I'm just going to—go. Go home. I had a good time, we should do it again," she recites, except it sounds like she's _trying_ to make it sound fake, and Britta wants to hit herself for reading so much into it.

The second Slater's out of sight, she slaps her forehead. It feels good. It's all fine.

*

Monday, Slater pulls her aside after class and asks her to come by her office whenever she gets a chance. It's unspecific and not subtle in the slightest, but Britta goes anyway because, what the hell, she's curious.

Slater motions her in with her head, and Britta shuts the door behind her, watching Slater sort files into five piles on her desk. "I'll be with you in a moment," Slater says, and sticks the papers she's holding in a drawer before looking up.

Britta waits.

"Okay," Slater says, "this is bad." She rises to her feet and walks around the desk.

"Shouldn't I—" Britta asks, pointing at the chair.

Slater looks from Britta's finger to her mouth, cradles her jaw in her hands, and kisses her.

Britta blinks when Slater pulls back. "Subtle."

Slater clicks her tongue and lets go of her face, face suddenly serious. Her lips are a little wet. Britta suppresses the urge to touch her own. That would just be immature. "All right," Slater says, considering. "That's your assignment for the week. Figure out what you think about that and get back to me."

"Are you serious?"

"What else do you want?"

Britta shrugs. "I— don't _know_ , a _real_ kiss?" she says, stepping into Slater's personal bubble. She leans in, bites at her earlobe and whispers, "I dare you."

She's not sure what she's hoping to get out of it. It just seems like a better option than talking about it, and like an option Britta wants, and there's something about Slater that seems to bring out her competitive side. She couldn't just leave and come back and say something. She had to put the ball back in Slater's court.

Slater hooks her thumbs in Britta's belt loops and says, "You have no idea what you just said."

"Then show me," says Britta, cocking her head.

Slater takes a step forward. Britta didn't know there was enough space for that, but now Slater's shoe is standing between Britta's sneakers and Britta looks up and—yeah, Britta's isn't the only competitive side that's come out to play.

"This isn't about a dare," Slater says against her mouth, catching Britta's bottom lip between her teeth for a second before adding, "I don't kiss people without meaning it."

"Yeah, well, neither do I," Britta says, and lets Slater walk her back around the visitor chairs and towards her desk. There aren't many steps involved.

Slater grabs her ass. Yeah, Britta thinks, she must have meant it when she said she liked directness.

"This is a secret," Britta says firmly, yanking Slater's shirt out of her skirt and pulling it over her head.

"You don't have to tell me that," Slater says. She backs Britta against her desk, and suddenly Britta's ass is pushing all those piles of paper off the other edge of the desk. Slater doesn't make a move to stop it; she clutches Britta's thighs, encouraging Britta to wrap her legs around Slater's, which she does, loosely, ankles crossing behind Slater's knees, pulling her in.

"This _stays_ a secret," Britta says, shrugging out of her jacket and tossing it into a chair.

"We better make sure it does," Slater agrees happily, batting off Britta's hands, taking off her bra, and Britta tries to hold herself back for a second before giving in and touching Slater's newly bare chest. She doesn't even fight the urge to squeeze her breasts. It would be embarrassing if it weren't to stay between the two of them for _ever_ , Britta reminds herself. "You're a boobs person?" Slater asks as she undoes Britta's fly.

"Huh," says Britta, thoughtfully, rolling Slater's nipple between her thumb and forefinger until Slater gasps. "If you'll even believe it, I almost forgot."

*

They don't make a habit of having sex in Slater's office. Slater knows better than that now, and Britta would never be that stupid.

They still have lunch together a couple of days a week, and sometimes dinner, and most of the times they have dinner, it's at Slater's—because Britta's place is a mess—and Britta drinks too much and just has to stay the night. It's the responsible thing to do.

About three weeks go by before Britta sets foot in Slater's office again. They still don't have sex there. They just make out against the door, and Slater opens her shirt, and Britta doesn't realize she's buttoned it up wrong until Troy starts arguing with Pierce about something and she zones out.

She fixes the buttons quickly. Jeff looks at her askance and raises an eyebrow. Britta shrugs and yawns and five minutes later fishes in her bag until she finds a pill for her headache. It's not even on purpose, but it totally makes her look hungover.

Nobody suspects _anything_.

*

"Try Michelle," Slater breathes out the first time Britta invites her over to her apartment. She's wearing a ridiculous belt that Britta's trying to get out; apparently that gives Slater enough time to think to ask Britta to call her by her first name. To remind herself to ask, maybe; it sounds like she's been meaning to for a while. "I'm standing in the middle of what I assume is last week's laundry, I think you can call me Michelle."

"I don't know," Britta says, and, "Ha," when she gets the belt out through the loops. As soon as she stands to her full height, Slater pushes her back, and Britta lets herself fall onto her bed.

"Call me Michelle," says Slater, and drops to her knees.

"Okay, _Michelle_ ," Britta says, trying not to laugh, because it's such a stupid request. "I don't even usually call you anything, _Michelle_."

"Exactly," Slater says, and yanks Britta's panties down.

*

"Professor Slater," Britta acknowledges when she walks by her on her way to Physio.

"Do you have a minute?" Michelle says, eyes narrowed, the start of a smirk on her lips. Britta should teach her subtlety sometime.

When the door closes behind her, Britta says, "So, how does this work? Outside the office, you're Professor Slater, and inside you're—Michelle? That doesn't seem appropriate, Michelle."

"Maybe not," says Michelle.

Britta backs her against a wall and wriggles her eyebrows. "I see you like to distract your students during school hours, _Michelle_ ," Britta says, like she's not one of them, like she's just paying _Michelle_ a visit.

"My name is starting to sound off to me," Michelle says.

Britta laughs. "I know," she says, then adds, a quick breath, "Michelle," and leans in to steal a last kiss before heading off to class.

*

"You know," Michelle mentions when they're having breakfast at her place, "Jeff didn't seem to have this much trouble using my first name."

"But I'm better at so many other things," Britta says around a piece of apple.

Michelle frowns and doesn't say anything.

"Really?" says Britta, and Michelle shrugs. "Come on, there's gotta be something I'm better at than Jeff."

"Well," Michelle offers, sipping her coffee for what Britta assumes is the sake of a dramatic pause, "you're much better at keeping me a secret."

" _Yes_ ," Britta says triumphantly. "Do I get extra points for that?"

"I could be persuaded to fake some extra credit into your file."

Britta perks up. "Really?"

Michelle cocks her head and smirks. "No. But you can have a gold star for stealth."

"Stealth _and_ perseverance. Jeff was your dirty little secret for only like, a month. I've been it for two."

"Don't push it."

*

Britta doesn't believe in jinxes. She doesn't.

"Is that—" Jeff begins during lunch. Britta still has lunch with the group more often than not, even though sometimes it feels like she's spending a conspicuous amount of time with Michelle. Lying will do that to you.

This time, though, it's just Jeff and her. "What?"

"Is that a gold star? Are you stealing pointers from my love life?" Jeff asks condescendingly, like he believes the only possible answer is yes.

"I am not. It must have flown into my shirt in class—your ex-girlfriend threw a handful of them at us. Group project."

"Michelle threw gold stars at you."

"Yep. One guy got some stuck to his hair and nearly cried, it was a really stupid move. But then she did date you for a while, so I guess that's her MO."

Jeff beams. It's infuriating. "She didn't."

"She didn't date you? Because—"

"No, she didn't throw stars anywhere. I asked around."

"You—did you just fake surprise at me?"

"Well, I am surprised you're borrowing tricks from things I told you. I thought you were independent and creative and full of original ideas."

Britta considers telling the truth, out of pride. "Yeah, well, I'm not. I saw these at the supermarket and I thought it'd be fun to use them. I will cut off your tongue if you gloat. It wasn't even your thing, it was Michelle's."

Jeff's eyes widen, just long enough for Britta to want to punch the smugness off his face before Jeff literally, honest-to-god guffaws. " _Michelle_?"

"Are you done?"

"Michelle," Jeff repeats, wheezing. "I can't believe you're friends with my ex-girlfriend. That's even better than stealing tricks from me. Did you bond over how much you hate me?"

"Friends!" Britta says, eyes brightening, and grins. "Yes, as a matter of fact we did, do you have a problem with that?"

"Britta," Jeff says. "You shouldn't have kept it a secret. I would have stopped laughing eventually. Okay, no, I wouldn't have. But you still should have told us. Why didn't you?"

Britta blinks, taken aback by the question. "No reason."

Jeff gestures at the gold star Britta flicked off to the side of her table, and then at her. "Oh, no."

"What?"

"You're—" Jeff looks around and lowers his voice. "You're dating Michelle? Are you crazy? She's your teacher."

"You're one to talk!" Britta says, choosing defensiveness over not being stupid and denying it. Shit.

"I didn't date her when I was in her class," Jeff points out.

Britta takes a deep breath and points a finger at his nose. "Do not breathe a word."

"I'm your friend, Britta. I'm not going to _out_ you."

"You're not?" Britta says, leaning back and picking up a fry. "Okay, great. Thanks. Are you going to stop looking shellshocked?"

"I just can't believe Michelle's into girls. If I'd known, that—that would have opened up a whole new world of possibilities."

Britta gapes. "Does _everyone_ think I'm a lesbian?" Jeff gestures at her leather jacket, and she crosses it tight over her sides defensively, burrowing it into it. "I'm not even that."

"Good luck explaining bisexuality to the study group," Jeff says.

"You just said you weren't going to tell them," Britta says threateningly.

"I'm not," says Jeff, "but these things always end up coming out."

*

Dean Pelton decides to put mistletoe up in every door two weeks before the holidays. Britta blames him entirely for Abed finding out. Britta's going to see Michelle in her office, and Abed's heading in the same direction, so they walk together, and Michelle opens the door and stands there until Britta comes in, and then there's mistletoe over their heads.

It's fine. It's tradition to kiss under the mistletoe.

"I think we're supposed to kiss," Michelle says, because clearly Britta's right, if Michelle's saying the same thing.

"You should step away from the door when people come in," Britta says, "or you'll get a rep for seducing your students."

"I'll keep that in mind," Michelle says. Britta lets out a longsuffering sigh before complying to the ancient tradition of kissing under the mistletoe.

"That's not a first," Abed says when they break away.

"What is he talking about," Michelle murmurs.

"That's not a first," Abed repeats. "You went for her elbow like you were comfortable touching it, which shows a level of personal trust you've been known to have with romantic partners only, and drunk people who needed your support. Britta's thumb is _inside_ your pocket, and she made a funny face when you pulled away that shows a level of personal comfort Britta's been known to have with no one." He takes a deep breath and looks up before looking at Michelle again and saying, "And Britta didn't jump when you touched her hair."

"You can't tell anyone," Britta pleads, looking around to make sure no one's listening.

"Because you're dating Jeff's ex? Or because you're dating your teacher?"

"Both," Britta whispers. "Mostly the teacher part. But both. Please, Abed. I'd do the same for you."

Abed considers it. "I believe you would. Okay. I'll keep your secret. But I can't keep the rest of the mistletoe away from you. You have to do that yourselves," he says, and, just like that, he leaves.

"He's observant," Michelle says.

"You have no idea," Britta says. She looks down to find her hand still halfway down Michelle's pocket, and pulls it out instantly.

*

"We should have the girlfriends conversation," Michelle suggests later that day, when she's driving Britta home. Britta's meeting Shirley for dinner later and she needs to—take a shower and change and pretend she didn't just spend three hours in somebody else's apartment, and most of that time having sex with a professor. A female professor. A female professor who happens to be Jeff's ex and a willing participant in Britta's biggest college embarrassment so far. "Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case the dean finds out," Michelle explains.

Britta snorts. "That's not defeatist," she accuses.

"It's not," Michelle says. "It's just realistic."

"Okay. Do you want us to be girlfriends," Britta says, blandly.

Michelle's eyebrows rise. "Well, that's not cold," she says, mimicking Britta's earlier tone.

"Do you or do you not," says Britta.

"I'm not the one I was worried about."

"Well, then, it's decided," says Britta, and steals a quick peck before undoing her seatbelt and getting out of the car like nothing happened. Not that anything has. It's not a big deal; they've been dating long enough, and Britta's pretty comfortable calling Michelle her girlfriend. She's more comfortable calling Michelle her girlfriend than calling her Michelle, even. It's not that big a deal.

It's not that small a deal either, though. Britta's never had a girlfriend before. Not even a secret girlfriend. There was that one time—but it was a secret to _Britta_ , the girl was deluded, so it doesn't count. Britta's definitely never had a girlfriend before.

She kind of likes it.

*

They make it through Christmas break without anyone else finding out. Britta's as surprised as anyone.

*

It does come out eventually.

It does come out eventually, and it's Michelle's fault.

Okay, it's Britta's fault for leaving a book at her house, but it's Michelle's fault for thinking she could bring it to Britta in the library and not get caught in a lie. Michelle sucks at lying. It's not just that she lies badly. It's that she catches Britta at the door to the room the study group meets in, and hands it over with a, "You left this in the kitchen," when _everyone can hear her_.

At least she's aware enough to feel however many pairs of eyes it is on her. Her own widen. "Ah, I meant in the cafeteria. I found it. Her name's on the first page. Thought I'd bring it back." She searches Britta's face for a better lie, some kind of out, but the damage is done. Britta's not good enough to fix this.

Britta tilts her head. "Should we just—"

"I've already turned in all the grades for your class," Michelle says, shrugging.

"Okay." She turns to the group. "Everyone, I'm dating Professor Slater," Britta says. Michelle throws her a glare. "Michelle. I'm dating Michelle."

Shirley stares at Britta. "As a Christian woman—"

"Oh, come _on_ ," Annie says, "being religious is not an excuse for homophobia. If you were to actually read the Bible—"

"As a Christian woman," Shirley repeats, glaring Annie into silence, "I wanted to say _to Britta_ : I respect your choices, but I don't understand why I had to find out with the rest of the group. "

"I couldn't tell anyone until the semester was over! Remember what happened when we found out about Jeff? I didn't want to fill a _questionnaire_ , and I definitely didn't want to drop her class." She lowers her eyes and adds, barely a mumble, "I liked that class."

"Okay, I really have to get to class," Michelle points out. To Britta. Not that Britta expects anyone to realize that, but just for once, it would be _nice_. It would make things so much easier.

"What about goodbye?" Pierce complains. "You're not going to mack on each other—"

"Pierce!" says Shirley.

"Well, I don't know about you, but—" Troy begins. "Abed?"

Abed turns to Britta. "If you're our mom, then Professor Slater is our mom's new girlfriend. Ergo, it'd still be weird." As an afterthought, he adds, "I also know it'd be weird from it having been weird before."

"No, it wouldn't," Troy croaks out. "What do you mean _before_?"

"You told Abed before you told me?" Shirley asks, hurt.

"He _guessed_!" Britta says.

"I'm just going to go," says Michelle.

Britta nods at her back as she leaves. Then, she turns to the study group and sits down in her chair with determination. "We're a study group," she says, locking eyes with everyone for a second before moving on. "Let's study."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Make Me Call Again (the Tell Me What I Want remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/175869) by [myrifique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrifique/pseuds/myrifique)




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